


cuddlebug

by yonderdarling



Series: that hashtag vault lyfe [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, Gen, I had a rough week, Naked Cuddling, Platonic Cuddling, Schmoop, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-12-01 06:35:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11480727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yonderdarling/pseuds/yonderdarling
Summary: It's a day, in the early 1960s, in the Vault.





	cuddlebug

**Author's Note:**

> Based on - that I had a rough week, that I can't go more than a month without writing a fic about the Doctor and Missy cuddling, and that one tumblr post about the Doctor living through the 1960s that I can't find right now. Unbetaed, written when I should have been doing other things, but hey.

Warm. Warm, warm warm, soft, warm. Blankets moving, cool breeze. Tucked in. Heat. Arm around waist, squeeze. Someone hums. There's a dream still playing out, the emerald and purple of some ancient planet, long gone, once visited. Ever visited?

Find yourself.

Hand on hip. Slim fingers.

Warmth, more warmth. The scent of skin, and linen, and sweat.

Wiggle, wiggle. Something soft under skin. That's their hand, that is. They curl it into a fist, twists the sheets. Lets go of the rough linen, rubs their hand along the Doctor's middle, feels ribs through the t-shirt. Nose against the back of his neck. Open mouth, press lips to skin.

Which one of you, are you?

The Doctor makes another pleased noise, runs his hand along her own, back up her forearm. He cups her elbow.

"That's mine," she murmurs, blinking green and purple out of her vision.

"Shh, shh, Missy, Missy," the Doctor mumbles. "Sleeping."

Missy tugs the sheet off her face, blinks up at the bright light streaming through the windows. Simulated light; fake windows. She wrinkles her nose, brushes her hair out of her eyes. The Doctor snuffles and pulls the blankets back up over his head. Missy holds him closer, fans her fingers over his chest and feels his hearts beating away slowly. There's a moment's pause and tentative peace, and then he shifts against her, his hearts speeding up. He takes a long breath.

"G'morning," Missy says into his back.

"I didn't mean to stay," the Doctor says, shuffling away from her, rolling away. "Missy - we set down some rules."

"I'm not holding you here," Missy says, even as her palms itch. She reaches over, runs her hands along her chest.

The Doctor stares at her, his face lined from the pillows, hair hilariously mussed. He just looks old. He looks tired.

"Hard when you develop Lima Syndrome, isn't it?" Missy says. "Hey? Impromptu sleepovers and all that."

"You walked in here with a good dose of Stockholm," the Doctor says, and reaches across, brushes her hair off her forehead. Missy leans into his hand, and he rests it on her cheek. "This is rehabilitation, not prison."

"You took my belts and shoelaces, and all the crockery is plastic," Missy says. "It's more secure than some prisons I've been kept in."

"You asked me to stay," the Doctor murmurs. "Don't you remember?"

"All that talking about feelings, I know," Missy says. She leans over, kisses the tip of his nose. The Doctor makes an annoyed noise. "And you stayed."

"I stayed."

Under the blankets, he reaches over and rubs her hip. Missy trails her hand down and holds his wrist gently. The Doctor breathes out, joins their hands, invisible under the covers.

"Let's go over the rules again," he says.

"In my bed."

"Sh. Come on, Missy. Impress me with that memory of yours."

Missy flops onto her back, looks up at the ceiling. "Make me a cup of tea first."

"Manners were rule one," the Doctor says. "Numbero, uno."

"Actually, rule one was please - tell me, promise me, you'll commit to this," Missy over-exaggerates her accent, pops her lips. "Here I am. Committing. Engaging. Tea, please, Doctor."

He sighs, shoves the blankets back, swings his skinny legs out of bed. Stops.

"Where are my trousers?"

Missy shrugs, and the Doctor tugs the blankets off of her. She's in a full set of fleecy, sunflower-patterned pyjamas. She gives him a big, cheesy grin, poses.

"No wonder you were a million degree limpet all night," the Doctor says, and sets off across the Vault in his boxers and wrinkled dress shirt. "Oh, here they are."

Missy dozes off again as the Doctor puts his jeans on, fusses around the little kitchenette, boiling the kettle, making a few rounds of jam and toast. He totes that back over to the bed, holding it all on a 1913 anatomy textbook Missy's been making judicious corrections in, balances it carefully in the centre of the mattress.

Missy stirs, sits up again. She takes her tea, takes a long sip.

"Rule one," she says. "Openly engage with the process. What is the process? The process is one of learning to be good. Learning to see the universe through new eyes. Through - " she takes another sip. "You know. Rule two, which covers any and all visitors around and to the Vault and on this planet, in the universe, all times, no killing, maiming, murder, wounding, driving to suicide, driving to self-destruction - "

The Doctor takes a loud bite of toast, watching her.

"Driving to self-harm, no psychological manipulation, no biomechanical manipulation - can I skip the rest of that page? It's all in the folder under that chair."

"Yes, that one should be okay to - "

"Right," says Missy, taking her own piece of toast. "Raspberries, lovely. Three. No self-harm, self-murder, self-inducement of regeneration or degeneration. Not that there's any chance of that. Rule four. In blackest day, in darkest night - "

"Missy." The Doctor frowns at her. The effect is ruined by the smear of jam on his chin. "Come on."

She tries not to roll her eyes; mostly succeeds. "Commit - you tell me, rule four."

"Prove that you are my friend," says the Doctor, not meeting her gaze. "Show me."

There's a long, full pause. The Doctor chews. Missy sips her tea. He makes it almost as good as she does; then again, they've both had time to practise, and they've both had lessons from Orwell.

"Speaking of British writers," Missy murmurs, and the Doctor nods at her. "To the Ancients," she says. "Friendship seemed the happiest and most fully human of all loves; the crown of life and the school of virtue. I'm not fully sure of the human part, nor the virtue. But here I am. We both know I could escape."

"At least pretend it would be a challenge," says the Doctor, and he sounds peeved. "Missy."

"Rule five," she says. "Be open. And that one's for both of us."

He nods.

"Nothing in there about not spending the night," Missy says. "And I've needed you, in here. Sometimes."

"You've not mentioned that."

"Well," Missy says, and purses her lips. "I have. Had occasion." She takes another sip of tea, looks at one of the fake windows. "To need you. Nice day, out there."

"It's set to springtime in 1230s Brittany, this week," he says. "Do you have any requests?"

Missy gazes around her dull living quarters, ignoring the chandelier. "Sunsets," she says. "Lots and lots of sunsets. I'd like some colour in here."

"Okay." The Doctor props his pillows up against the bedhead, sits against them awkwardly. "When did you need me? Missy, all you need do is ask. Part of being good is knowing when to ask for help. Even I have trouble with that."

"Don't make me do this. Wait. I can't do this while you've - " Missy licks her thumb, scrubs at the jam on his chin. "No, even with that gone. Still don't want to do this."

"Indulge me," the Doctor says, looking up at her from the pillows. He sips his tea, one-handed. "Come on."

"I," says Missy, and shuts her eyes while she speaks, takes his wrist again, rubs his forearm. "I get lonely."

The look on the Doctor's face goes from earnest to annoyed. "I'm not coming in here because you get horny - "

"No. No, I had - a funny turn," Missy says. "I had a dream. It was not a nice dream, and usually I can shake them off by myself."

He watches her, nods. Makes a 'go on' face.

"I couldn't shake it off," Missy says, looking into the tea. "I was sort of - stuck."

"How so?"

"In the war," Missy says, and the Doctor makes a noise. She looks up at him. "What?"

He puts his mug on the bedside table, slides across, wraps an arm around her waist. He rests his forehead against her hip.

"Oh," says Missy, and puts her hand in his hair. "Okay, this is okay." She brushes her thumb along his temple. "Just you know, all the things, I did and saw, before I ran away."

"Mmhmm."

"At the Cruciform," says Missy. She fiddles with her mug. "You know that's where they evacuated the Willowstream settlement? They were all underneath when the Army lost it. They were trapped. Buried alive. The ruins boiled from the regenerations occurring under the ground. No one made it out."

The Doctor stays silent, and she knows it's the the therapist-mandated technique of drawing it out.

Missy hums, plays with his hair, enjoys how soft it is. "I sacrificed a whole battalion to bring down one Dalek saucer that day," she says lightly. "Into a timewhirl. No way one could regenerate from that."

"Did you feel guilty?"

"No."

"Do you?"

Missy looks at her reflection in the dregs of her tea. Her hair is a disaster. She avoids her own gaze, smooths it down.

"Missy?"

She knocks back the rest of the cup, grabs a piece of toast. "No. Not particularly, no. Should I?"

"You know you should. At least intellectually."

"It just seemed a waste, if I'm honest," Missy says. She takes a bite. "Hey?"

The Doctor rolls onto his back, trails one of his hands along the bottom of her pyjama top. He runs his thumb along the strip of skin above her waistband "I think that may be a start."

"Don't get your hopes up."

His hands, warm on her bare back, rubbing circles up and down her spine. Missy finishes her toast, and the Doctor sits up behind her, rests his hands on her shoulders, rubs them. Her blood runs warm under his fingers.

"Why are you so touchy-feely today?" Missy asks, craning her neck to see him. "I'm not complaining, just commenting."

The Doctor sighs, brushes her hair over her right shoulder. "You - "

"I?"

"You were dreaming last night. Don't you get tired?"

"We're Time Lords. We don't need to sleep that much. Big meals, all that."

"Yes, but you were restless."

Missy shrugs.

"Missy."

She finishes her toast, leans back against him, relaxes into his torso. The Doctor loops his arms around her waist and she sighs. He pulls her closer, brackets her with his skinny legs.

"What did I do?"

"I saw your dreams," he says. "Well, I assume they were yours. There are things that I see, that I've forgotten. But they felt like you, so." Missy takes his hands, crosses her arms over her torso so the Doctor is holding her. "They tasted like stale bread."

"Mmhmm," says Missy, playing with his fingers. "Yes."

"Missy."

"Doctor."

"Regret tastes like stale bread," the Doctor says quietly. He presses his face into her hair. "They weren't my dreams, Missy."

"Well, this bread is fresh," Missy says, running her fingers along his knuckles. "Freshly baked. Do tell me a story. Tell me about the outside. It's the late Fifties now, right?"

"Sixties, actually," he says.

"Good time. Bad hair."

"Glass houses."

Missy giggles, and she feels the Doctor smile.

"Why do you feel regret?" she asks, massaging his palms. "Doctor? Why did you stay last night?"

"Sometimes, I have impeccable self control. Like right here, right now," says the Doctor. "And sometimes, I give myself time."

"Yes."

"Can we talk about you, some more? You're the prisoner here."

"Still not feeling regret, doubt I ever shall. So there's little more to glean from that avenue of conversation."

The Doctor shifts her in his lap and tucks his face into her neck. Missy feels his eyelashes tickling her skin. The Doctor presses his mouth against the juncture of her neck and shoulder.

"Doctor? What year is it?"

"Today is," says the Doctor, and she can feel his voice vibrating in her bones. "It's the first day I come to Earth with Susan. We'll land in about four hours." He puts his face back against her neck. "Three and a half."

Missy takes his hands once again, squeezes them. "You could go watch."

"I could. I can't. Do you - "

"I understand."

A few minutes pass. Missy hums quietly, some odd, old rhyme they made up at the Academy, and she feels the Doctor's lips and eyelids twitching against her neck. There's water on her skin too. She keeps humming, reaches back awkwardly and strokes his fluffy hair again.

"It's okay," she murmurs.

"I'm not crying," he says thickly.

"Then please stop drooling on me," she says, and he chuckles. "Doctor, Doctor, Doctor. Oh, Doctor."

"She loved Earth. She loved school. Thought it was so much better than the Academy."

"She's your granddaughter," Missy says. "What did you expect?"

He sniffs.

"Do you remember when she was born? You cried. You cried when your kids were born, when your daughter announced her engagement, when she told you she was having a baby."

The Doctor stays silent, but rests his hands on her hips, squeezes.

"I mean, yes, I cried when my kids were born, and when they were married." Missy exhales. "When - everything happened."

"That was to be expected. Missy. I don't want - to talk about Susan. Not right now."

"Okay."

Missy wiggles out of his lap, turns to look him. She cups his teary, old face in her hands, and the Doctor smiles at her.

"I have nightmares," she says. "Nothing - specific, oddly. I just know they're meant to be frightening. I taste blood, and bile, and there's electricity, and burning hair."

He swallows.

"I'm not frightened. I simply know, _intellectually_ ," Missy says, eyes darting. "It should be something I am scared of."

"Okay," says the Doctor, and his eyes study her face. "I think that's good."

"It probably. It probably is," she replies.

"Do tell me when - if, it changes," the Doctor says. "It might, it might not. This is unexplored territory, more or less."

"Yes."

Missy breathes out. She leans over and pecks him on the forehead. "Right," she says. "Right. Doctor."

"You get lonely. How can - do you think, that will help your progress, or hinder it?"

She puts the book, the mugs and the remnants of the toast on the floor, stretches out across the bed, wiggles her toes.

"I don't mind being alone," she says. "It's the loneliness. It's the boredom that sets in. I think I need more books."

"I'll bring you some books," says the Doctor. He sits up against the headboard, rearranging the pillows. "Any requests?"

"I finally got through the fourth Potter book. That was a slog. But you know, now the best character is back and in action, I think I could read the fifth."

The Doctor chuckles. "I'll get it for you."

"I miss - " Missy purses her lips. "Don't make me say it."

"I don't know what you miss."

Missy reaches out, grabs his ankle, squeezes. The Doctor takes her wrist, runs his hand up her forearm.

"I'm picking up what you're putting down," he says. "I've been picking it up all night. You've never been this tactile before."

"It's either the boobs or the Vault."

"You pinned me up against a wall and stuck your tongue down my throat the first time we met," the Doctor says.

"Honestly, I'm not actually sure on why I did that," says Missy. She covers her eyes with her free hand. "Though in hindsight it was a little odd. I mean, UNIT has the footage now. I don't need that hanging over my head when - UNIT begins to exist. If. Hey, Doctor, I've got an idea - "

"Missy."

"Doctor."

"Seriously. Missy. Hey."

She looks over at him.

"You miss touch, when you're here."

"Only sometimes," Missy says, and tuts. She slides off the bed, wanders over to the pile of discarded books. "Do you want something to read? I'm going to have a shower. I've got - well, you know what I've got. Did you ever meet Nancy Wake? I've half a mind to check her out if I ever get out of here. Talk about a positive role model."

"Missy, come here."

"I'm getting you a book. I'm being polite. You're my guest."

"You pick. Read to me."

"Read to you?" Missy turns, stares at him, sprawled across her messy bed in his wrinkled clothes. "Why?"

"A trade. I'll do something for you, if you do something for me."

"Fine, I'll read to you. What do you want to do for me?"

"You're a cuddlebug this time, and I like to hear your voice. I'll give youwhat you need, you give me something I want."

Missy blinks at him.

"Why do you think I talk to you through the doors all the time? I mean you don't answer, on the whole, but I like to give you the opportunity," the Doctor fiddles with the edge of the blanket, looks up at her. "Missy?"

"Did you - " Missy pulls out a CS Lewis paperback. "Did you just say what I think you just said?"

"Absolutely not, I have no idea what you're talking about. Is it just about the closeness, or is it a skin thing?"

Missy pauses, fiddling with the book. She feels her face colouring, tips her head from side to side.

The Doctor takes a moment, then nods. Jaw tightening, he unbuttons his shirt, puts that on the floor, pulls his undershirt over his head, revealing his skinny chest. Then the Doctor stands, unbuttons his trousers and takes those and his pants off. Unceremoniously, he lies back down, the bed squeaking, and pulls the blankets up.

"Okay," says Missy and she unbuttons her pyjama top, kicks off her trousers. "Okay."

She pads across to the bed and crawls over to the Doctor, puts the book on the pillow as he lifts the blankets and she huddles in beside him, chest to chest, skin to skin. Warmth. Smooth skin, his body hair, the sound of his hearts and breathing. Tension she didn't realise she'd been holding in her back dissipates.

Missy sighs, wraps her arms around him, squeezes. The Doctor presses the heel of his hand into her back and rubs it in small circles.

"Good?" the Doctor asks, and she nods.

"Hang on," says Missy, and slides her thigh between his legs. "No funny business, don't worry. Just - "

"Surface to volume ratio," the Doctor says, and Missy snorts. He rests his hand on her waist. "You were - on me like a moon of Jupiter, all night. That was a big hint. I should have realised this ages ago."

"It gets cold in here," she says. "I get lonely."

The Doctor goes quiet. He rubs her back, from her neck down to her bottom, and up again. Missy's eyelids grow heavy.

"That's nice," she says.

"You really are a cat this time," he says. "So. Reading?"

Missy reaches out, pushes the book off the bed. "Lost the book, sorry."

The Doctor chuckles, and keeps rubbing her back. Missy squeezes his sides, settles her head under his jaw and breathes in his smell.

"This is so lovely," she says lazily. "Doctor?"

"It is," he says distantly. "Sorry, I'm thinking about Susan."

"That's okay. She was a good kid. Is?"

The Doctor stays silent, tucks his face into the hair on top of her head.

"Silence is an answer in itself," Missy says, and hums. "Doctor, Doctor, Doctor. She was a bright kid. She will be fine. Provided she wasn't called back to Gallifrey."

"Why haven't I seen her since?"

"It's a big wide universe," says Missy, closing her eyes. "A big, beautiful, wide universe."

He keeps rubbing her back, down over her arse, her thighs. Up again, and he massages her neck.

"Are you asleep?" the Doctor murmurs.

"No. No, no. Are you comfortable? Is this too much for you?" Missy forces her eyes open, peers up at him. "Doctor?"

"It's fine," says the Doctor. "You did say you'd read to me. I like to hear your voice."

"And it might take your mind off things," says Missy, and makes a thinking noise. "I can do some recitations."

The Doctor kisses her on top of the head.

Missy coughs. “And so. The heavens themselves, the planets, and this center/Observe degree, priority, and place/Insisture, course, proportion, season, form/Office, and custom, in all line of order.”

"Did you ever meet him?"

"Every bloody time I end up in the Elizabethan era," says Missy, and the Doctor chuckles into her hair. "Can't escape him or his sonnets. Constant as the northern star. Doctor."

"I can't go see them. I won't be able to stop myself," says the Doctor. "There's a reason we picked Bristol over London proper."

"And here I was thinking it was the accents," says Missy, rubbing her nose against his throat. "Doctor, Doctor, Doctor." She tips her head up, kisses him under his ear, runs a hand through his hair.

"I'm getting a leg cramp," he says.

Missy wriggles around, and he shifts until they're spooning, his chest to her back, his arm around her waist. The Doctor smooths Missy's hair back. There's silence for a moment, the Doctor nosing into her hair, Missy stroking his arm as it curls around her stomach.

"Had we but world enough and time," Missy murmurs, and the Doctor closes his eyes. "This coyness, Lady, were no crime/We would sit down and think which way to walk and pass our long love's day./Thou by the Indian Ganges' side shouldst rubies find: I by the tide/Of Humber would complain." She pauses, takes a deep breath. "I would love you ten years before the Flood - you know this one is about sex, right? I like it too, but it's literally him pleading her for a shag. Not even a _good_ shag. He just wanted to get his leg over."

He makes a low noise, squeezes her waist. Missy closes her own eyes, runs her thumb along his knuckles.

"I'm falling asleep," he whispers. "It's still a nice poem."

"Then sleep, my dear. We both could use a good rest," Missy says. "There will be time, there will be time/To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;/There will be time to murder and create,/And time for all the works and days of hands/That lift and drop a question on your plate."

The Doctor goes limp against her, his breath warm against her neck. Missy leans into him, trying to get more skin contact.

"Time for you and time for me," she says, and yawns. "And time yet for a hundred indecisions,/And for a hundred visions and revisions,/Before the taking of a toast and tea."

The Doctor spreads his hand across her stomach, anchoring her against him. Missy sighs happily and he nuzzles into her hair. She runs her fingers down his wrist, feels the steady thrum of his pulses under his skin.

"Ten years before the flood," the Doctor murmurs.

"My sentiments exactly."

**Author's Note:**

> Excerpt is from Shakespeare, poems are To His Coy Mistress (of course), and The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prucock, which takes inspiration from To His Coy Mistress. 
> 
> I was trying something a bit different with this one, would love to know what y'all thought. Thanks for reading!


End file.
